


Illusionist Mechanics

by autumnsnowfall



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anti-Social Personalities, Drama, Gen, Magical Theory, Mild Language, Misery Loves Company, Permanently Unhinged, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 03:42:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30116646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumnsnowfall/pseuds/autumnsnowfall
Summary: A paradox is a contradiction that manifests within human consciousness. It is birthed from statements meant to challenge the reality of its audience and speaker. Yet within the conjunctions of worlds, an antinomy can sometimes emerge that has an origin that is confusion itself.If Witchers are made to defeat monsters, what is the course of action with a living paradox? With the prospect of facing an unacceptable being? Furthermore, what is to be done when such thing is a Witcher itself?How can a being be living and dead? And how far is one willing to go to try and accept something that may not exist in the first place?
Comments: 42
Kudos: 3





	Illusionist Mechanics

**Author's Note:**

> I’ll admit, I haven’t been writing because I’ve been consumed by Gwent. And I’m lazy.
> 
> So, this is just something quick, messy, and fast. I have something else on the go but Gwent. Gwent Gwent Gwent.
> 
> \---

It was another hot late summer night; The type of evening where the sun seemed unwilling to dip below the trees, casting everything in a deep orange glow and extending long shadows across the ground to hide rich groves and copses of sweet-smelling trees. It coated any exposed skin with a sheen of sweat that couldn’t be wiped off and forced clothes to be shed and abandoned in packs and tents, the air too humid to don anything other than thin cotton. Even sleep seemed impossible as every surface beaded with moisture and it left corners sticky and muggy with oppressive heat. Blankets became suffocating; Breathing became a chore when air grew stale. And the scent of chlorophyll and smoke from distant villages and far away cities mixed in the wild hollows, adding to the lazy and burdensome atmosphere where even the animals seemed too lethargic to move. 

It had been a long time since he had been in such a state - sweaty and tired just from doing nothing. They had ridden all day, from before the sun had even risen, and by the time they had settled down for the night in the hidden meadow, he felt as if his head was filled with stagnant swampy water. But the journey and summer humidity had drawn a strange peace over himself - an air of indifference, in a sense - and when he fell onto a patch of grass after caring for his horse, his mind emptied and fell in to a fuzzy blankness. Lulling him into a strange ethereal trance where he only _felt_ instead of thinking.

Sweat collected in the folds of his body, irritating and chafing some parts, but whenever he got annoyed about it, one inhale left his anger fading. It was too hot to get annoyed, too hot to get up, and too hot to do anything but melt into the grass. He was between worlds - completely drunk - and if the moment he was trapped in lasted forever, he honestly might accept it. To become one with the earth. Like the dryads of Brokilon did with their forest and trees.

He wasn't a Witcher; He was the same as the soil, air, and sod that cradled him in the heavy evening sun.

Of course, not everything lasted forever. Life still existed, even as he lay still. A sharp snapping noise frequently cut through his languid dreaming and he found himself casting his gaze to the right for a second. To where his old mentor was breaking twigs into kindling, his lithe frame hunching over where Schrödinger had scraped away a firepit. His hand raised after a moment, a different cracking noise filling the air as he drew the sign for Igni, and a soft plume of smoke began lifting from underneath the pile. Small, at first, before it bloomed into a thick white cloud. As Joël moved to crouch over it, adjusting sticks and logs until the smoke disappeared and was replaced with flame and heat, he went back to his daydreaming, his eyes dragging to the clear sky above.

There wasn't any point to offer his help, neither was he inclined to do so as he gazed at the painted horizon above him. The lackadaisical calm and sweet laziness only summer could inflict had seeped into his bones and he found himself sinking further into a haze as he counted the stars that were beginning to shine. It was strange that he had fallen into such a condition. If anything, the coming night was an alarm to any Witcher. It signalled a call to sharpen swords and coat knives with blade oil - keep them close and keep them ready, as Joël had taught. Night was the realm of monsters and the consumer of the weak. But here he was, counting stars as his eyes dropped down, comfortable for the first time in months. Not even the threat of death was enough to wake him from the stupor he was accepting.

This was the problem with hot summer nights. They easily could trick even the most trained into thinking they were nothing more than something to be enjoyed.

As if Joël has read his mind, a snapping hiss echoed near him again, and the smell of woodsmoke and burning dried moss soon had the stink of tobacco added to the mix. An ugly scent - foul and choking - yet familiar enough to make him nearly smile. His mentor only ever lit his pipe when he was planning on winding down, meaning he was in the same state as him. Lulled into a false sense of security. Even Schrödinger had grown docile, his presence still close to the horses as he wiped them of sweat.

Only one wasn't, but _he_ couldn't be sensed. Meaning he had once again left them.

It wasn’t something he minded. It had been a while since any of them had any proper downtime and their former Grandmaster was as restless as they came. His entire personality and presence seemed to exist to set unease in every living thing that crossed their path. The way he intimidated without speaking a word left his skin prickling, and he sighed to himself as he tried to once again pull back into his lackadaisical laziness, even as his mind kept reminding him he needed to be more serious about their situation. Earlier Gezras had been his typical silent, brooding self, but once they had found the hollow, he seemed distracted. When he slipped away from them, he couldn't rightly tell, but after tying up his horse and watering it, their quiet and unsettling Grandmaster had vanished. 

Former Grandmaster.

He made it clear how much he _despised_ the title.

Wherever he was technically was no concern to him. They had set up their camp, the horses tied to a few sturdy aspens with a few apples tossed around their feet, and he was able to flop down into the grass after with no complaint. If Gezras had been around, he'd probably have a knife against his throat as a warning to never let his guard down or some shit. Being able to relax without constantly using his senses or being so on edge his nerves hurt felt good. Even if he knew he should be cautious due to his years of experience, it sometimes was just nice to _enjoy_ things.

Ironically, it reminded him of his early days as a fledgling Witcher. When Axel and Cedric would convince Joël to let the him and the other boys rest after tormenting them with stupid tasks. Those were the times he found a tree or rock to climb up and hide behind, pretending to be _normal_ for once and not a mutated freak. As if his sister would arrive at any second to grab his hand and drag him off to some adventure only kids would understand. Only now, after sixty-some years, he was too tired to hide, too old to be ordered around like a child, and too jaded to remember what it was like to have anyone care about him. He did as he pleased, helping only when absolutely needed, and he chose when he wanted to interact with the others - something mutual between them all when they reach the end of their ropes, which was shorter than most.

Four Cat Witchers travelling together was strange in itself, but after Joël had figured out he wasn't going to listen to him, the journey wasn't that bad. It only meant if he acted too stubborn or stupid to not get himself killed, he'd have to save his own skin. Which was why he needed to get his swords.

It wasn't like his tent was that far.

It was just the prospect of getting up that didn't appeal to him at that moment.

Fuck it, he'd do it later.

He counted the stars again, breathing in the air that was making him drunk. What was a few more minutes? It had been too long since he had rested in such a way and it was dragging him into a sleepy stupor. Maybe he’d just sleep right there, under the stars, as if the world they lived in wasn’t dangerous at all. His blankets would be too hot anyway and he hated stripping down to the point where he was blatantly vulnerable and exposed. Even if the temperature dropped, he could just roll down his sleeves. Or use igni to relight the fire.

His eyes began to dip as a dozen more stars poked through the sky that was gently turning a deep blue, the orange glow disappearing to cast them all into a world where young shadows and blue hues ruled. Where he was just a speck in the vastness of the Northern wilderness.

For a moment, time stood still as he closed his eyes and the smoke from the fire crept over him to cling to the sweat on his skin, soaking in deep as if he was a dry rag. He smelled like a wildfire that had been lit in a grove of young poplars - a charred yet sweet scent - and it lulled him deeper into the veil of dreams. Where if he took a step, he’d be suddenly drowning into his strange abstractions. Ones that either rehashed past mistakes or were amalgamations of conversations and prophecies he had heard over the years. Like the gears on a portcullis that turned in a forever circular motion that wound nothing but his unconnected thoughts. Always the same stuff that only changed depending on what cycle the cogs in his head were on. 

Schrödinger had warned him about dreams before, muttering they were cursed and wicked things. But he didn’t have his strange perceptions or abilities or ideas. To him, dreams were nothing. Just something to pass the night. Nothing he ever remembered when he woke had any significance. They were just figments of his imagination.

But as he toed the line, teetering between falling deeper into his beckoning sleep or staggering back into a restless wakefulness, his skin started to burn. It wasn't a caustic one, like when he had been hit with arachas venom or endrega spit. It burned like a needle piercing through skin, as if a thousand of them had entered his flesh at once and ignited each of his nerves with a terrible shudder. Like he had been dragged for a trial and hundreds of eyes were concentrated on him. Judging every bit of his body for reasons he couldn't understand. It was as if he had taken the wrong road in his mind. To neither waking or dreaming, but instead to a nightmare.

He was trapped inside himself, suddenly conscious he was in a dream. The lines had disappeared and without knowing it, he had fallen into his own head, drifting off before he could even decide if he should. He was neither cold nor warm, but his skin still rippled with the knowledge he was being watched. By wraiths, necrophages, or hell, just Joël, he didn't know. Yet it would be wise for him to wake and crawl into his tent, where his swords lay. Where he could pretend then thin canvas could protect him.

Except a whisper began drifting through the haze in his mind and he found himself unable to shake himself free. Listening when he should be running.

Only he never was quite good at taking orders, and despite what the commonfolk and paranoid said, dreams couldn't hurt him. He wasn't like Schrödinger. He just needed to wake up

At first, it was soft; Incomprehensible. As if what was being spoken was done into a wind miles from where he stood. Drifting to him until his mind began to tick and concentrate, focusing on syllables and the sentence being uttered. For a moment he even considered using his senses, but such things didn't exist in dreams. He wasn't a Witcher in them and his magic always seemed to fail when he tried to defeat something with a sign. All he could do was act like the human he once was and listen as if his life depended on it. Focusing on each word and translating it back to himself. Like an elven door puzzle; Only his knowledge would help unlock it.

Into the wind that was blowing in his head, it took him four heartbeats to realize what was being said was actually being purred. Like a mother to its kitten, the tone affectionate but sharp. Scolding, even. And each vowel grew louder the more he began to shift and wither in discomfort. He was being chastised. This was not the words of something affectionate. He had done _wrong_.

"...A shame..." he plucked out, the smell of iron slightly bothering his nose. Blood. "...Vulnerability." His face began to flush as embarrassment took hold for something he didn’t understand. “...If you don’t get up-?” His throat went dry as the whisper became louder. Until it talked into his ear. “-I _shall_ kill you.”

That word.

_Kill._

It was spoken truthfully.

In an instant, his eyes snapped open and he was back in the real world, the sky now littered with stars and his body frozen cold from sweat. Above him, two golden eyes stared deep into his frantic ones, and he reflexively kicked at the ground, whirling like a bull that had gotten its horns tangled in brambles, his arm scraping roughly against the grass, leaving lines of painful burning green on his skin.

“Wh-What the fuc-?!” his body started to shake and the figure that had been above him only straightened, watching him with an expression of pure hollow amusement. Entertained that it had broken him with a few words. As soon as he caught his eyes properly, his heart starting to hammer into his throat like a blade on an anvil, he realized what demon had been above him. The only one that would be bemused by seeing him panic and stumble. “Ge-Gezras-? What the fuck-?”

Something was tossed at him and he flinched, coiling away as a worn leather bag hit the ground near his knees. The string around its top loosened as it slumped, its contents careful not to spill out, but he could only stare dumbly at it, confused on what the hell it was to begin with. Not to mention _why the fuck_ Gezras had said those things to him. If he said them at all.

No, he did. And he meant it. Because only Gezras of Leyda wouldn't hesitate to threaten him.

Their former Grandmaster ignored him as he walked toward the healthily roaring fire, pulling out a smaller bag to throw at Joël, who seemed completely neutral to what had happened. As if Gezras hissing his intentions to kill him if he didn't wake up was perfectly normal and completely fine. The fucking asshole. His mentor caught the bag thrown to him leisurely with a single hand, and he moved to rest his pipe on his knee as he shifted the bag between his palms, purposely not looking over to him or acknowledging his frantic and frankly pissed-off gaze.

Then again, why would he? He wouldn't have reacted either if Gezras did the same thing to him.

As if on cue, the old half-elven Cat moved to kick at a block of wood that had yet to be split, forcing it to become a stool as he rolled it down to the fire and close to Joël. He showed no intention of even addressing what he had said, and in fact treated him like he wasn't even there. Like him and Joël were the only two around. It made the sting of his grass-stain hurt even more, for some reason.

“Your students shouldn’t expose themselves so easily,” he said, loud enough for him to hear. Slowly, his cheeks began to flush in embarrassment at the open mocking of his reaction to being woken. "I could have thrown a knife straight into his skull and you wouldn't have even noticed he was dead until the next morning."

For fuck's sake. He should have went to sleep in his tent.

Joël only shrugged at the criticism, not seeming to care either way. “I taught them how to fight monsters. Whatever poor habits they pick up after isn’t my fault.”

Slowly Gezras sat down, placing the final bag that he had tied against his hip carefully on the ground between his feet. He treated it like a mother would to its newborn child, and even his fingers took care when they undid the cord, his dexterity a complete juxtaposition if one knew his true personality. He spoke with a slight purred accent, one that wasn't unnatural to him, but was to the ears. A type of dialogue he had formed himself from years of rejecting others and not absorbing any local way of speech. He spoke softly but so strangely, and anyone who heard couldn't help but frown at the strangeness of his accent.

"Joël," he started as his middle finger twirled the excess string around it. “It’s a bad reflection on _us_.”

“I don’t really care.”

“Hm,” Gezras said, his reacting neutral and flat, but when he ripped the rest of the cord off in one singular motion, he knew Joël's answered had pissed him off. The string was thrown into the fire, and for a moment, Gezras watched it burn with eyes that began expanding to reflect the full height of the flames, before he retracted them and went back to normal. But he had seen the simmering anger and it left him growing nervous. The former Grandmaster was not someone any living thing wanted to fuck with. Truly. And any little thing could set him off.

For a second, his eyes slide to his tent where his swords lay - steel and silver. Neither which was very helpful against such a Witcher, but the sense of ease and protection they gave was enough to force him to ignore his fears. But again, he was too far away, and grabbing them at that moment could be a possible death sentence if Gezras took it the wrong way - an act of rebellion instead of defense.

Gods damn him for falling asleep. This was definitely a punishment he brought upon himself.

Before he could muse any further, Gezras finally opened his bag, and from within the sack he started to pull out a bottle. It wasn't very large - smaller than the bottles filled with water that were still loaded in the wagon - yet its black body reflected a tint of beautiful emerald green when the firelight twinkled off the neck and bottom, relaying what it was. Slowly, he turned it over, his eyes narrowing for a second as he rubbed at the label, but he relaxed when he reached for his knife, sliding it away from its casing that laid low on his hip. He aimed the tip of it with precision, as if he was doing some sort of mathematics on the cork, before he began sinking it in, letting the blade pierce the spongy wood. Sliding it deep within it as if it was a trained motion he was used to performing.

Joël said nothing as he tapped his pipe against his boot, indifferent, but he knew better. He wasn't that stupid to the anger that had been briefly displayed. From where he still sat, he could see how cautiously his old mentor watched Gezras’ knife. Using his peripherals to keep track of the motions he made and how it was grasped within his palm. It was the same look he used to give all the newly-formed Witchers when they had been allowed a knife - not a sword, not until they proved themselves. But a knife. He always was aware of where the weapons were and how skilled the wielder was.

His own knife was foolishly underneath his swords, back within the private oasis of his tent. Once more, he felt completely naked and foolish at how stupid he was not to grab them, but it was too late to fetch them without being silently humiliated until the end of time. Instead, he was left to awkwardly stare at the bag Gezras had tossed to him. Forced to deal with whatever lay inside. What else could he do as both of them mocked him in plain sight? His face fell, growing sullen as Joël observed Gezras wrenching the cork from the bottle, and he shuffled over to the bag, ignoring the sting and smell of grass stains on his arms as he began opening the sack he had been gifted.

All that was inside were a pair of deerskin gloves.

It made him frown as he pulled them out and turned them over twice, noting how the palms had been rubbed so bare from heavy years of use, he could almost use his thumbnail to break through the wafer-thin leather. How they got to that state, he couldn’t tell, but it made him frown in utter perplexion as he flicked his eyes toward Gezras. Where the hell did he get these?

The old Cat was still absorbed with easing the cork out of the wine bottle, and after a minute or so of his gentle rocking with the tip of his knife, he finally freed it with a sharp pop. One that was loud enough to make their horses nicker and raise their heads. He paid no attention to anything but the bottle, raising the lip to his nose to carefully sniff it before he sheathed his knife. A moment of hesitation passed, as if Gezras himself was unsure of what exactly was in the bottle, yet he brought it to his mouth regardless.

Quietly, he took a sip.

He paused, his eyes focusing on the fire as his brows began to knit together in half-confusion and careful calculation, before he did it again. Taking another small drink as his tongue pressed against his cheek. He found himself watching in strange fascination. Was he drinking poison or had he expected something else?

Joël was the first to speak after enough time had passed that doing so wouldn't get instant beration. “Is it any good?”

Gezras' eyes dragged down to stare at the label.

“It’s passable," he finally decided. It was a good enough answer for Joël and he finally focused on his own gifted bag, his pipe resting close to his hip as he started to unravel the top. Just like that, the two fell into a strange comfortable ease, both completely ignoring him as he sat in the grass by himself, their focus inward and on their own devices. After a moment, Gezras even moved to hand the bottle to Joël, and he watched them in silent envy and bewilderment at how both easily had fallen into some sort of friendship. It was strained as he could tell Gezras wasn't overly fond of his mentor - a mutual feeling - but out of all of them, he got along better with his tobacco-stinking teacher than he did with him or Schrödinger.

It made him hesitate as he looked down at the gloves in his hand, unsure of what to do. 

If it was a gift, it seemed like a strange one. The gloves were worthless and he already had a pair of his own with his supplies. One that fit and weren't ready to fall apart. If Gezras woke him up for this, he was either completely oblivious to everything around him, or purposely enacting his form of ironic cruelty.

Only as he was staring at the gloves did his mind begin to nag at him. He was given gloves, Joël was still working on his bag as Gezras began yawning, but one of them was missing.

Where the fuck was Schrödinger?

Instantly, he let his senses flood away, throwing the world into a monochrome dark mess as he searched for a familiar heartbeat in their camp, suddenly hyper aware of the absence. He had been asleep for maybe an hour or less, but in that time the other Cat had somehow turned invisible and disappeared. It wasn't _unusual_ , but considering night was falling upon them, an unsettling feeling began growing in the pit of his guts. While he had been lured into the mirage of a peacefulness, the world had been turning with its merciless reality. Harmony and tranquility did not exist - There was no peace in their world. Only danger, monsters, and death.

He had been a fool to get drunk on something so misleading as a summer sunset.

“Cat Fuzz,” Joël’s voice suddenly came, snapping him from his thoughts as he turned stare at him with his unsettled brooding. Had he seen Schrödinger leave? Did he even know? His answer came not with any form of concern or an understanding of his sudden apprehension, but with the wine bottle being raised. It made him blink dumbly.

"What?" he said without thinking. Joël's expression remained neutral, but he saw the slightest change in his expression; A look he used to flash at him when he was a child and had fallen off the rope or screwed up his footwork. Disappointment in him for not reading between some invisible lines. It left him scowling slightly as he fully understood what his damn mentor wanted. It wasn't worry for their missing Cat Witcher or even care that night was dropping fast around them, the once blue shadows now black as a void. It was if he wanted a drink.

Truthfully, no. He didn't. He wanted to grab his swords from his tent, crawl up a tree, and to sit within the branches all night, on edge and alert to the darkness forming around them. Watching for when - _if_ \- Schrödinger would return. He had a moment of peace and it felt like it had cursed him. He was a Witcher and angry sobriety was better than having his head grow heavy with his asshole mentor and a psychopathic half-elf. Yet the moment Gezras' gaze slid over to stare at him, waiting for him to make a choice, he was locked into staying near them lest he deal with his wrath. He already looked bored enough to start killing and neither of them seemed too interested in whatever was bothering him.

It made him scowl like a child. He should have slept in his tent, but shit was too late for that. Slumping slightly in defeat, he slowly forced himself to get up with the gloves still in his grasp. He really didn't know what to do with them, and he ended up tucked them into his back pocket as he dragged himself towards Joël. The heat of the fire prickled his previously sweat-soaked skin, and he wiped as his arms as he rounded the fire, purposely not looking to Gezras despite feeling his eyes on him. Honestly, he wish they'd just insult him and let him leave to his own devices. But Cats always liked toying with others as if they were mice, even if it was at one of their own.

As if he read his mind, Joël pulled the bottle from just out of his grasp when he reached for it, his golden eyes focused deeply on his as he tried to not completely lose his mind. He knew he was pissing him off, yet he still remained silent as he studied him, taunting him to read the situation. Something he made him do as a kid. He despised those lessons the most as his three mentors had unreasonably high expectations for him to somehow read minds. Mutations didn't give them shit in terms of psychic abilities, yet they always liked to taunt him and the others with 'unspoken intentions'. It was stupid.

His jaw clicked for a moment as he forced himself not to just make a fist and jump on Joël like a mad panther, but after a second he found himself swallowing his rebellion and glaring right back at him. What he wanted was obvious - it was what he always expected from his students.

Respect without earning it.

“Thanks,” he muttered, bitter. Joël let him take the bottle without a word.

Though he knew later there would be _words_ about it. Probably when he was too exhausted to fight back.

He drank before even bothering to see or judge what type of wine it was, his frustration already growing as his body started to ache from sleeping on the ground. Sweet summer songs were over and he was left with the cold reality of a late night in a northern country. Where it was still too muggy to sleep with a blanket, but his skin was growing cold. After his second drink he finally picked up what the hell he was swallowing - chardonnay - and he filled his mouth before swallowing, letting the alcohol permeate every corner with different sensations and hues that made him wince to pick out.

Oak, apple, and stone fruits from down south. It wasn't unpleasant, but it was too sweet for his tastes and he hissed when he finally was done, his teeth hurting. He turned the bottle out of habit to read the label and see just what fanciful dumb name had been given to it, but when he drew it near the fire, he realized why Gezras had been thumbing the paper earlier. 

It was soaked in blood, completely drowning out any ink that had been there. And it was fresh enough that he could feel the tips of his gloves grow wet.

It made him freeze.

His expression must have relayed his shock and he heard a slight huff from across the fire. The sound that Gezras made when he meant to laugh - dry, oddly mirthless, and creepily hollow. As if he delighted in seeing his horror. “Something wrong, Gaetan?”

“No,” he said quietly, moving to hand the bottle back to Joël, but his mentor pretended not to see, his focus on finally opening the bag Gezras had given him, revealing it to be full of tobacco. Fucking asshole. He found himself standing awkwardly with the wine, not willing to drink more, when his name was called again.

"Gaetan," Gezras purred his name, and he winced slightly as he met his gaze. The right side of his mouth was quirked up, showing off his teeth and hideous cracking scar, and he took care not to visibly swallow or shudder at the grotesqueness of his smile. 

The former Grandmaster beckoned him once with a single finger and he had no choice but to obey, abandoning his mentor's side to carefully move to his. It was when he was close enough that he noticed the drying blood on his boots and it left his cheek twitching. Of course. Gezras always only left to go on a killing spree, never to gather anything useful. He awkwardly held out the bottle, offsetting his gaze so he didn't have to see the unsettling derangement that always lurked under Gezras' marbled façade, and he clearly noticed his discomfort. Dwelling in it with delight.

“You don’t seem impressed,” he mused as he took the bottle back, sliding it from his fingers in a fluid, smooth motion. "Not a fan of wine?"

He bloody well knew why he was disturbed, but it didn't matter. He should have left for his tent or stayed by Schrödinger's side. Or the horses. They never seemed to delight in his misery. “It's not to my taste.”

“Hm," Gezras smirked. "Pity. It isn't a bad vintage."

Right. "It's too sweet."

"That's what makes it good," Gezras purred.

He wanted to disagree, but getting into an argument was the last thing he wanted to do. He cast a glance back to his tent, contemplating how to gracefully get the fuck away from them so he could grab his swords and slip into the night himself, when Gezras let out another huff. "You're rather distracted tonight."

He said it like an accusation instead of an observation. It left him frowning deeply as he turned back to him. "I'm..."

Gezras continued, the firelight now dancing within his eyes, turning them from a golden yellow to a flickering demonic orange. “Did you see the camp as we came here? Is that your concern?”

That made him pause, his expression turning completely dumb as the word tumbled from his mouth without prompt. “Camp?”

Gezras’ smile twitch into something cruel and mocking. Enough to make him begin flush at how foolish it was for him to speak without thinking. “The bandit camp that was a few miles back. Where do you think those gloves came from? You’re welcome, by the way.”

Even Joël seemed slightly shocked at the revelation, but he hid it better as he pushed the crushed tobacco leaves into his pipe. It left him as the sole stupid one as a blush began heating up his cheeks, and he was left under the scrutiny of their former Grandmaster, his expression leeching away all kindness until he was staring at him with a displeased smile. He adjusted the bottle without looking at it, holding it with two fingers by the neck, and he raised it to drink, his gaze not breaking from his as he did. It left his own cheek twitching in anxiousness.

When he finished, he finally set his eyes elsewhere, relieving him of his irritation, but the tension between them was growing. As if he was somehow at fault. “What a fucking state the Cat school has become,” he muttered to himself, yet clear enough for them both to hear. “Embarrassing.”

What the fuck?

How was not noticing a camp a reflection they were failing? Even Joël seemed annoyed at the statement, his mouth growing thin as he wiped down his pipe. But Joël knew to keep his mouth shut.

He didn't.

"Why would I notice a bandit camp?" he said, defensive. Gezras didn't look at him, but he saw his brow twitch. "You told me to watch the wagon."

"You're incapable of doing two things at once?" he raised the bottle again, each word cutting into him. Implying a failure.

"No, I-"

"Gaetan," he snipped. "It was three miles back and visible from the road. The fact you didn't notice it troubles me." He took another drink. "Same with you, Joël."

"I never said I didn't notice it."

"Hm."

The rebelliousness in him surfaced and he spoke without thinking. Motivated by the curse known as emotion that was forced to dwell in his chest and the fact he was being signaled out again like a child. "So, what. There was a bandit camp? Who cares?"

Gezras' eyes flashed as he snapped his gaze to him and it made him visibly flinch. Again, there was something horrifically _dangerous_ about the old Cat - something he should be used to - but his stubbornness prevented him from being rational. He was already on edge. Their exchange wasn't helping quell it. 

"What?" he said. Again, Gezras focused on him so hard it felt like his skin was going to be flayed off, the summer night air growing as cold as a glacier.

"If I have to tell you why being in close proximity to some bandit's is a problem, then I'm shocked you've even lived this long," he said, the words stabbing into him. "I know you're still a child, but I didn't realize you were this stupid."

He bristled deeply at his words, his entire body going rigid before it started flooding with anger. It wasn't a gradual motion - it exploded within him from his core until every inch of his blood was hot with it.

"I'm _not_ stupid."

Gezras' lip raised for a second, sneering at him, before it fell and he went back to the bottle. Drinking quietly and brushing him off.

He repeated himself. "I'm not _stupid_."

Even Joël seemed to take his side, giving their Grandmaster a dark look, but he remained quiet and neutral. Never willing to step in. Unwilling to defend him.

Because Joël only ever gave a damn about himself.

When Gezras finally did address him, it soaked with a snide and dismissive tone. Mocking his anger. "I've been waiting for you to prove that statement, but you haven't. Once." His eyes slid over to glance at Joël. "Neither of them have."

Why the word _neither_ was the catalyst, he didn't know. Maybe it was for the fact both didn't seem particularly interested that one of them was missing, let alone failing to live up to whatever fucking expectations Gezras had. At any rate, it left his fury blinding his eyes and he found himself baring his own teeth, the scar on his face hurting as his lips peeled back. Fucking hell, this was why he had kept to himself for over a decade. It was bullshit he was being judged by some old bastard Cat that only cared about himself.

_Like Brehen had._

“If you’re so observant, then where’s Schrödinger? Huh? You noticed a bandit camp, but do you know where he went? Where he disappeared to?” he asked. Joël completely stopped what he was doing as Gezras’ eyes slowly moved to stare at him. Completely devoid of emotion, yet there was a slight bit of interest flickering behind them. Begging him to continue his spitting rant. “Or do you only notice things you can kill?” He inhaled. "Because your psychopathy-"

"My what?" It was said so suddenly and angrily it made his tongue freeze in his mouth. "My _what?_ "

He stumbled on his words, the air between them growing so tense it was choking, and he found his anger wavering as another emotion fought to overtake it. One he wasn't used to, but had been building in him since their first meeting.

Fear.

It didn't help that Gezras' eyes had locked his into a deadly stare, his pupils growing so wide they made his iris' almost black, and he swallowed as his body turned to stone, a tremor running down his spine. He was rooted to the spot, almost paralyzed, and his heart began to grow within his throat, the horrible pulsing silencing all thoughts in his head other than he had _fucked up_. There was arguing with him on an equal plane, then there was utterly fucking himself over to the point where he gave another Witcher a reason to attack him - verbally or physically. Even Joël was staring at him like he had lost his mind and he found himself swallowing deeply, trying to stop trembling that was beginning to vibrate through him.

“I-I meant-” his voice shook like a leaf in a windstorm. "I... I didn't-"

“Gaetan,” Gezras said before Joël could speak, his voice so cold it made his skin ripple. “Shut up.”

"Gezras-" Joël tried, but he only held up his hand at him, forcing him to silence himself. A notion he accepted.

He closed his mouth as well, the fear taking hold as the entirety of the elven Cat's being focused on him. Tearing him to shreds psychologically until he was left regretting that he had even been damn well born. He suffocated him with his presence alone, dominating him through sheer will, and when he finally tore his eyes away, his gaze locking with the ground as sweat began to slip from his temples, he heard him shift. Still angered and tense from his stupidity.

Quietly, he moved to stand. Slow enough not cause him to flinch, but still quick and fluid enough that he shuddered slightly in anticipation. The smoothness of his simple motions were ethereal, as if he was made of water instead of flesh, and he found himself withering under his golden eyes as Gezras continued to drill holes into his skin. Putting him in his place without another word. It left him burning in shame, the simmering anger in his guts withering to nothing as he still had some urge in himself to live, and he instead fought with the fear within him. A strange sensation he had known sparingly throughout his life thanks to his mutations, but a form of it still existed in what once was human marrow. He honestly was expecting some sort of explosive retaliation - Gezras' sword cutting into his neck or his sharp little knife slamming into the weak folds of his armor.

Instead, Gezras took a step, each one calculated, and he slid around him like a wraith, the breeze of his passing chilling his naked skin. Yet nothing else was said. He merely drifted to the small stack of wood they had collected, the only sound he made the slight jingle of his metal trophy hook clicking against one of his belt loops. 

Silently, he knelt down and began carefully dragging his fingers over certain pieces of wood. It was a careful deliberation, one he watched with his lips pressed thin, and he glanced over to see Joël tapping his fingertip on his pipe, contemplating lighting it or not. Still unwilling to speak out for him. After all, if one was docile around Gezras, his rage would be directed elsewhere - to someone else.

It left him gazing longingly at his tent, but his boots felt like they were filled with lead. Unable to move from their spot. He was trapped standing near the fire while Gezras picked up pieces of dry firewood and Joël pretended neither of them existed. What had been a semi-relaxed atmosphere now cold and forlorn and the sweet-summer air had all but dissipated into a dreading scent of burning wood and stale tobacco.

He nearly had collected his nerve to finally leave them and go spend the night up some tree when Gezras slipped beside him, the electricity and suddenness of his presence finally causing him flinch. For a Cat that was a head shorter than him, he damn well knew how to get under one’s skin. Worse was he didn't seem to care that he was having the intended effect on him. Completely nonchalant, he moved to place each piece he collected into the fire at different angles, not caring when the fire popped and hissed embers at him as if it recognized him as a threat.

It made him flick his eyes up to catch Joël’s gaze; Only his mentor ignored him as he carefully wrapped up the tobacco Gezras had given him, focusing on it like he held the Redanian Crown Jewels in his damn hands. Gods fuck Joël in the ass sometimes.

“Gezras-” he attempted again, wanting to break the tension.

It didn't help. “Be quiet,” was all he said, not bothering to look at him as he broke a piece of bark off one of the logs and crumbled it into thin wiry strands. He shut his mouth.

When Gezras finally finished adjusting the fire, the flames a flickering yellow and orange while the hearth ran a bright red, a healthy coating of ash forming, he acknowledged him with a gaze that made his nerves skitter under his skin. There was a fierce danger in his eyes, one that made his throat run dry, but his anger wasn't as blatant as it had been before. Slowly, he could see a hint of exhaustion on his face; Long-suffering and deep. As if he wasn’t interested in being so angry.

"You're lucky I like you, you know," he said quietly. Soft enough so that Joël couldn't hear.

If this was how he acted when he _liked_ someone, he truly wondered what his hatred manifested as. But he was smart enough not to ask. He merely nodded cautiously, trying his best to keep meek. Gezras only twitched his brow at his mute response before he ignored him, his ash-coated fingers moving to rub against his neck, slowly moving massaging at the old puncture wounds that marred the right side of his pale flesh. 

"I'm only going to ask this once and I expect an answer, Gaetan," he began, his golden eyes once again fixating with his. He said nothing. "What am I to you?"

He blinked. Huh?

"What am I to you, Gaetan?" he repeated, picking up on his confusion. His voice remained soft and calm, but there was a threatening undertone beneath it, one accentuated with how he was pressing his fingers into his neck. One that demanded he take his damn time in thinking of the answer. "Since you're such an expert on me. Me and my _psychopathy_."

His skin began to bristle. This was a damn trap and they both knew it.

"I didn't-"

"You did," he cut him off. "You meant it. Don't even fucking try that with me."

Shit. Fuck. _Shit._ Couldn't he just kill him and get it over with?

Gezras' cheek twitched, as if he could read his mind and the panic welling in it. Slowly he crossed his arms, taking careful stock of him as the sweat began to creep down his back.

"What am I to you?" he repeated.

He didn't know what to say. Well, nothing that would keep him alive. "I don't know," he muttered. A poor answer, but it was half-true. "I don't know?"

Gezras didn't seem pleased. "Do you see me as some type of mother?" He gaped at him. Even Joël raised his head with bafflement. "Your shepherd? Wet-nurse? _Grandmaster_?"

“Uh-”

He cut him off again. “I told you when we first met, you can follow me North or you can do whatever you please. You, your Mentor, and the caravan-” He tossed Joël a look over his shoulder, one that went unacknowledged. “-You were free to join me. But I am not your master, leader, parent, or caregiver." His eyes grew cold again with a hard, unforgiving gaze. "My role in life isn't to watch over you and that other Cat like you're my kittens. You're fully trained Witchers and if you couldn't handle yourselves, you'd be dead. Tonight, probably, if a bandit camp full of half-starved men eating some fucking rats wasn't an indicator they wouldn't have attacked later for our supplies."

He really didn't know what to say to him, other than to press his lips into a thin line. He never viewed him as such things, not intentionally. But there was a bit of shame in his accusations.

Gezras let out a sigh at the change in his expression. The irritation was still coursing through his veins, but he seemed to be trying to take some leniency on him. "So yes. I do notice things I can _kill_. My psychopathy, as you call it, helps me damn well stay alive. Be thankful for it."

"Right," he muttered, his cheeks growing hot again. Gezras only frowned at him.

"Right. Hm." He contemplated his short words. "So then tell me, Gaetan. Why do you view me as someone who needs to look after you and that other Cat?”

He was twisting his words. There was never a suggestion from him that he should - hell, he didn't even expect Joël to give a shit about him. It was both their lack of care Schrödinger was missing that bothered him, and he found his own cheek twitching. A struggle within him to explain himself, but also to berate them both like they constantly did to him. Only if he did so, he knew he'd never win. They always seemed able to contort his speech until he was back into the position of Runt of the Litter.

He let out his own sigh, his body growing exhausted with how constantly on edge he was around Gezras. He just wanted to sleep that night. "I didn't - I don't. I'm was just pointing out that Schrödinger is gone and the only thing you seem to care about is how come I didn't see some stupid camp on the way here."

"It was something you should have noticed," Gezras said.

"Well, sorry. I didn't," he flushed. "But I notice when Schrödinger is gone."

"Do you?" Gezras said again, his head tilting slightly. "When did he leave tonight?"

That made him pause. "It was-"

"Exactly, Gaetan. What time did he leave exactly?"

Frustration began to fester in him again. Of course it was being thrown back in his face, and he found himself flushing deeper, unwilling to take the bait. "An hour and twenty minutes ago," he lied. "When-"

"Wrong," Gezras cut him off with a harsh, slicing tone. "I'll advise you not to lie to me again. What time did he leave, Gaetan? Exactly. To the second."

The way he said _second_ pissed him off. Who the hell counted time? It left him struggling not to clench his fists as he glared at the damned old Cat. How he constantly forced him into a disadvantage.

But he had the ability to do so. Because he knew he was unchallenged in his skills and if he fought back, it would be suicide. So unless he wanted to dig his own grave, he had to comply.

Didn’t make it any less difficult of a reality to swallow.

"Fine," he spit. "I don't know." Gezras rolled his eyes knowingly. "But you didn't-"

"You never saw him leave. Yet you want to assign your failed observation of his disappearance on me because you're angry at your lack of awareness," Gezras spoke over him, each word punching him in the gut, making him physically wince. He studied his reaction with slight disappointment, his golden eyes narrowing slightly as he uncrossed his arms and slowly turned to go back and sit on his makeshift stool, his fiery-red hair appearing rusted and dark when the firelight caught it. Like the colour of fresh blood.

"If you want to give me flaws, pick some that make sense. Or consider working on your own before you think you can lecture me." He dropped back down, moving to pick up the wine bottle to bring to his mouth. He swallowed a lump of anger that had built in his throat, furious as the old prick took a long drink, completely indifferent to his frustration.

Only after he took a third drink did he speak again. "For the record, I saw that Cat walking to the southwest through the trees when I was coming back. Something you could have just asked me about instead of acting like a damned child and assuming I didn’t _care_."

His ears ran red with humiliation. It was embarrassing to be berated in such a way. Even Joël seemed to regard him with a touch of disappointment at the entire exchange and he grit his teeth for a moment, furious at how he was once again being made to be the stupid, irrational one. Yet there was really nothing he could do.

He glanced back at his tent once again. How different would the night had been if he had just laid down in it? The mugginess of the summer evening was waning as the moon rose, and even if he had suffocated on his wool blankets earlier, it would have been a hell of a lot better than dealing with being insulted. Anything would have, really. It was just another lesson that he had been lulled into a false sense of peace and if he was smart, he’d never damn well do it again.

Just as he was ready to give them the middle finger and leave, Gezras began to speak again. 

But not to him.

"Joël," he said. "Tell me about him."

That made him pause as Joël slowly looked over to their former Grandmaster, his fingers still playing on whether or not he was wanted to light his pipe for a second time. "Hm?"

"Schrödinger," Gezras said, refusing to look at either of them, his gaze unfocused as he stared at the fire. "Tell me about him."

He found himself pausing. No one had really asked about Schrödinger before. In fact, he didn't really know much about him, other than he was just like him in a way. Somehow he was given to the Caravan, years before him. Survived the mutations, survived the trials. Went off on his own Path to fight monsters and get spit on by peasants. The only difference was he had something _wrong_ with him. Something none of them could really pinpoint.

Even Joël seemed to struggle with what to say. Like he was naive to Schrödinger as well. "Hm. What do you want to know?"

Gezras frowned, his fingers playing with the neck of the wine bottle. Treating it like a flute as he tapped his fingers up and down it as if he were playing the instrument. "How long as he been like... that?"

Joël gazed into the fire, taking his time to respond. "Always, I'd say."

That was news to him. He always assumed the mutations had fucked up Schrödinger - that was what Axel had implied. The fact that he was strange before he was brought to them piqued his own interest, and he found himself staying, despite his opening to leave. Neither of them seemed to care that he lingered.

"Who brought him to be a Cat?" Gezras continued, his right index finger sliding up to tap against the lip of the bottle.

"Cedric."

"Where'd he find him?"

Joël shrugged. "Don't know."

"You never asked?" Gezras began to frown. Joël gave a half-shrug as he cradled his pipe within his hands and leaned over to stare deeper into the fire.

"Why would I? I don't care where our Cats came from. I was in charge of teaching them, not _mothering_ them."

Gezras let his insult slide, much to his slight frustration. Of course Joël could get away with being a prick. Then again, that was most of his personality. Yet, he knew there had to be a slight lie within his statement. He wasn't overly affectionate to them - sometimes he was downright cruel - but he had given him a bit of comfort when he told him about his sister when he was a kid. How... he didn't want to leave her. It was a memory he rarely thought of, but the recollection of it made him frown as he remembered Joël not giving him as much shit for a few days after. Even going as far as to let him have an extra biscuit at supper. He did _care_ , it was just in his own warped way. Just like he technically cared if the last of them died.

It made him slowly stare at his old mentor. How his black hair was a tangled mess shoved into the hood of his armor, his eyes ringed with dark circles and the old scar that ran across his throat wrinkling with his aging skin. Even though he was maybe twenty years older than him, he looked the part of an aged, ornery tomcat whose teeth were ready to fall out. An unsettling contrast to Gezras, who looked as if he was a fresh, twenty-three year old kid who had just left home. It was only when focused on him did the rawness of his mixed blood relay he was much, much older.

He found himself watching him for a second as he stared into the fire, silently musing to himself over what Joël had said. In the distance, a nightjar began to sing, breaking up the monotony of the crackling fire, but the air in the hollow was still cold and simmering with an unspoken tension. Cats were never supposed to congregate for long, and even he drew his gaze to the trembling ashes fluttering within the fire's hearth. Where the heart of the fire's intensity burned hottest, flicking out embers and ash when the wood it fed on was fully consumed.

All three seemed mesmerized by it until Gezras lifted the bottle to drink again, his mouth twitching after. Still lost in his contemplation, yet willing to draw out of it for answers. "How did he take the mutations?"

Joël breathed quietly at the question. "He survived, so about as well as any other living Cat."

"There was nothing strange about his process?"

"I don't remember."

For a second, irritation crossed across Gezras' face. "You don't remember?"

"I didn't deal with the injections. I was the trainer," Joël said, scowling slightly. "I didn't make an effort to watch a bunch of kids scream and die on a table."

Gezras scoffed. "If watching the weak die bothers you, I don't understand why you're even a Witcher." Joël shot him a dark look at his subtle insult. Even he had to give him a small glare. Those that had died weren’t _weak_. They were _lucky_. "What do you know of that Cat, then?"

"He's a Witcher. That's the end of it," Joël said quietly as he cast his glance back to the fire. "And he's a bit strange. What else is there to know?"

"A lot, if you bothered to figure out his origins," Gezras said, his tone turning agitated and cold.

"And why would we care about where Schrödinger came from? He's a Witcher. That's it."

"Because," Gezras' strange accent turned sharp as he nearly hissed like an actual cat. "He's-?"

For a moment, he went silent, much to their surprise. Joël waited quietly, his peripherals on the ancient Cat Witcher, but he openly stared. Waiting for what the hell Gezras was even going to say. He seemed to hesitate, his jaw clicking before he focused on the wine bottle. Shaking it for a moment to check the amount of alcohol still inside, before he took another drink. Long enough to drag on the pause.

When he finally finished, a strange expression had crossed over his face. As if he was concerned.

"He's what?" he asked, speaking on behalf of Joël and his own curiosity. Gezras' cheek twitched. As if he wasn't sure himself. He took a chance in asking, his eyes catching Joël's for a second, confirming their thoughts. "Gezras, do you know what's wrong with him?"

Again, his cheek twitched as he stared at the fire, his fingers tapping on the bottle, but there was an uncomfortable brooding that enveloped him. Like for once he wasn’t superior to them - he was just as equal as them all. "I don't," he admitted. "Not with anything factual. But.." He hesitated.

Joël spoke first. "You think he's cursed?"

"No," he quickly shut down such an idea. "He's not cursed. I would have known immediately if he was."

"How?" he asked. Gezras gave him a sarcastic look, not bothering to answer. It made his cheeks redden slightly. "Because of our medallions?"

"No," he said, his tone growing flat.

"Then-?"

"Gaetan, shut up for a minute," he said. It ended his question, a bubble of exasperated fury popping in his chest, but he swallowed down whatever rebellious, venomous comment he wanted to make. It wasn't worth it. 

Gezras ignored him as he began to muse again, his eyes sliding to look at the forest around them that had changed into black shadows that doused all manner of light. The only thing illuminating them was the fire crackling in its well-fed hearth and the light of the rising quarter-moon, casting them into a strange world of ghostly pale light and warm burned orange. For a moment, he seemed disinterested and bored, but slowly his brows began to knit until he moved to once again drink.

His fingers slid up and down the neck for a moment, raising the bottle, before he paused. Still lost in his thoughts. There was a strange intelligence reflected in his eyes as he slightly scowled before he lowered the wine and finally settled on turning to Joël.

“You mentioned something once," he said quietly to his old mentor. "That he gets a certain way."

Joël frowned. "He does."

"And he disappears often, does he not?"

"Yes."

His brows knit together again. "For how long?"

Joël shrugged and for once, he looked to him. "Don't know. Hours? Days?" He nodded slightly to confirm. Both of them had witnessed the time frames in which Schrödinger had gone. 

"Never more than a week," he said softly.

"Hm," Joël nodded as he moved to finally relight his pipe. He drew the sign of Igni with a deft precision, and there was a small crackle before a glow came from underneath the stuffed tobacco. He took his pipe into the corner of his mouth, inhaling in soft puffs, before he finally got the damn thing as he wanted. Gezras said nothing, his eyes still fixed on the fire, but slowly he placed the wine bottle down. No longer interested in it.

"Gaetan," he asked quietly. It made him nearly flinch. "Have you ever followed him?"

He blanked for a moment. "No."

"Not once?"

"N-No."

He didn't seem pleased. His fingers drummed on his knee for a moment, his cheek twitching, before he finally reached behind him to open the small satchel he kept on his back. Carefully, he pulled out his worn notebook, something he had only seen a handful of times, before he dug around for a small nub of charcoal. Worn down until it was tinier than the length of a finger knuckle, yet pointed and well shaved. He ignored them both once again as he flipped to the back of his book, folding over the cover as he smoothed out a wrinkled page, and he began to write with a clipped, fast hand.

Well. Try to write. Cedric had beaten into them all the merits of reading and writing, but one of those skills seemed beyond Gezras, despite his age. His hand was terrible; Beyond what Cedric used to call 'chicken scratchings'. It was incomprehensible at times, only able to be dissected by the Grandmaster himself, and even he seemed to struggle to understand what he wrote.

His current page was soon filled with nonsense, as if he was writing some dead language. Only understandable by him. By the time he turned to a third page, his expression had grown dour and sullen. It left him dreading to know what he was figuring out.

Joël sucked on his pipe, pretending not to care.

He was left awkwardly standing and staring at the fire again, waiting for whatever the hell Gezras was figuring out. Watching as Joël blew out a perfect ring of smoke, the circle spiraling and growing wider before it dissipated in the cooling air. The lull that had fallen over them gave him another moment to reflect, and he found himself casting his gaze to the pitch-black forest to the southwest. How the moon only revealed the bark of a few of the outer trees before they turned into rows of still ink-soaked matchsticks. Like soldiers that were told to guard a fortress - rigid, some crooked, but all motionless in the summer twilight.

Why had Schrödinger gone that way? From their maps, no village was near them. They had left the last one that held a decent inn that morning, and had travelled at least thirty miles from it, passing by only lone farmsteads or villages abandoned due to plague or famine. There were no contracts in the wilds of Redania; One either survived the burdensome journey between cities or they died. 

So, why did he disappear? What was possibly out there that he needed?

"Do you think he went to pick some herbs?" he found himself asking, mostly to himself, but he voiced it clearly regardless. Neither Joël nor Gezras answered and he was left contemplating again. Where did Schrödinger used to leave to when they were kids? He couldn't even remember, just the aftermath of when he came back and either Axel or Kiyan would beat his backside until it was red.

In fact, he couldn’t recall Schrödinger ever staying around them for long. He always was disappearing. He just assumed he had a shit sense of direction, but with Gezras’ strange interest in him, it didn’t seem as plausible. There was something _wrong_ with him.

But none of them had bothered to really care until that point.

Gezras paused in his scratching, tapping the blunting end of charcoal for a moment on the paper, before he let out a soft sigh.

"Gaetan," he said, forcing him to turn to attention. "Has Schrödinger ever said anything to you about where he goes?"

He frowned. "No."

Gezras' eyes slid over to Joël, but his mentor was already shaking his head, blowing out another ring of foul-smelling smoke. It left their former Grandmaster's cheek twitching before he slowly put away his charcoal, gazing at his notebook for a moment until he clicked his teeth together. His eyes held a strange finalized look in the and it left his skin prickling. 

"Gezras...?"

His shoulders slumped slightly as he closed his notebook, his golden eyes raising to momentarily catch his before he checked to see if Joël was listening. The other Cat made no indication that he was. He spoke regardless. 

"Neither of you have been to the ruins of Kaer Seren, I take it?" He frowned, shaking his head. Where the hell was that? Joël only blew out a few puffs of smoke, clearly not interested in his question. "Or Gorthur Gvaed? Morgraig?" His blank expression must have made it clear he had no idea what he was talking about, and he moved to stuff his notebook back in his satchel, his fingers plucking the wine bottle off the ground again. "Have you been to any library?"

"No." The sigh he made sounded like one a mother would make at her dirty children. It made him flush slightly. "I never had a reason to."

"Right," Gezras muttered, once again looking to Joël, but he refused to give him anything back. "Fucking typical."

"What does a library have to do with Schrödinger?"

Gezras' cheek twitched. "Nothing. I was just wondering if you would understand what I'm going to say." His face grew red, the insult taken immediately. "I suppose it doesn't matter."

Joël raised his pipe for a second, ready to inhale, before he paused. "You think Schrödinger's written in a book?" The way he phrased it made it clear he found the conversation idiotic. Yet Gezras still didn’t raise his blade to him. He merely brooded at the fire, his tongue pushing against his cheek for a second before it disappeared.

"No," he said. "But the Aen Saevherne have things written down." He took another moment to pause, thinking deeply for a moment. “And…”

He trailed off again. This time Joël spoke before him.

“And _what?_ ”

"I think Schrödinger is technically dead."

The words dropped around them like a boulder being thrown into a still pond. There was nothing but silence for a second as the revelation settled, but once the ripples began, both Joël and him had turned to stare at Gezras. As if he was crazy.

He merely lifted the wine bottle to his lips and took a long, thorough drink. Aware of what he had said, his own pale cheeks growing a slight tinge of pink - yet it could have been from the half bottle of alcohol he had consumed. Yet he doubted that. The amount Gezras could drink was exceptional and his wild theory seemed more likely to be the source of his skeptical flush.

He stumbled over his own shock first. “He's... He's what?” Joël shifted in his seat, his brows furrowing deeply as he gave Gezras a slightly more respectful look. But it wasn't that far off from his own incredulous one. “What do you mean he's dead?"

Gezras' cheek twitched. "I mean what I said. Just from thinking about what you've told me and the amount of time he disappears," he said, quiet. "The Aen Saevherne used to collect texts and knowledge before the Conjunction of the Spheres and humans destroyed a lot of their cities. And something about that Cat..." He pressed his mouth into a thin, white line. "I think he fits one of their phenomenon's. Or something I read a while ago."

"Which is?" Joël asked bruskly. 

For once, he didn't seem to want to answer. It was strange to see the Old Cat turn inward, uncomfortable with his thoughts. His doubt made him doubt, and he found himself shifting to fully face Gezras, watching him carefully for any twitch or minuscule change in his expression. He kept his face neutral, his cold, elven features helping keep him appearing like a statue, but it wasn't hard to see some of his reluctance when his eyes struggled to maintain their gaze for longer than a minute. He didn't trust himself, yet he pressed on, answering his old mentor without a hint of sarcasm. "Do you believe there's other worlds than our own?"

Joël's eyes narrowed slightly and even he had to pause to contemplate the answer. It wasn't something he ever considered. "If monsters only came when the Conjunction happened, then I suppose I have to," Joël muttered. "You think Schrödinger is from another world?"

Gezras gave a half shrug at his skepticism, his eyes flicking to the fire. "No. Not in a technical sense."

"Then what?"

He again took a moment, his fingers tapping on the bottle, making a soft, hollow ticking that was somewhat melodious. It was out of impatience, but also frustration. At himself, or them, he couldn't tell. "I think he was born between them."

"Between what? Worlds?" Joël said as he lowered his pipe, completely forgetting about it as the tobacco smoldered within the lip. Even he found himself blinking, his mind trying to wrap around the concept. Different worlds he could understand, but between?

"...Yes," Gezras muttered, not looking to either of them as he said it.

He still didn't get it.

"Then how does that make him dead?" Joël asked, his voice growing quiet, like he loathed to say the word.

Gezras gave another shrug. "He's not supposed to be here. Anywhere, really. He wasn't born living here and he wasn't born living in another place, so that leaves him as being technically dead." He lifted the bottle once more, only taking a small sip this time. "Which would explain why wraiths and ghosts are drawn to him. He probably interests them a lot."

Joël scowled, and he couldn't help but frown in turn. How could someone be born between worlds and end up in theirs? What was Schrödinger? 

“I don’t get it. How's that possible?” he asked quietly, trying to figure it out. Yet it made his head ache to the point where he had to stop.

Gezras sighed as he gaze out toward the trees, his expression growing weary and he could see small lines straining underneath his eyes. Invisible wrinkles of stress that had accumulated over time. Something he never quite noticed before. "I don't know how it's possible. I just know it makes sense when I think about it from things I've read some years back." He breathed out, exhausted. "Schrödinger is an Aen Saevherne paradox. He exists and he doesn't. He's both alive and dead. That's why he keeps disappearing. He has to disappear, I assume."

"Because he's not supposed to be here?" he guessed.

Gezras shrugged again. "Probably."

He couldn't help but gape at him. He had seen a lot of shit in his life, but Schrödinger being dead didn't make sense. He bled like the rest of them - red, iron-rich blood - and he had crossed swords with him. Clapped hands with him. Watched him puke after Aiden and him made him drink an entire pint of ale. He was physical; He could be shoved, kicked, and congratulated, all things he reacted to. If he was dead, he'd be like the wraiths they banished. He wouldn't feel _alive_.

He wasn't the only one who doubted Gezras' theory. “That’s impossible,” Joël said before he could, clearly lost in his own doubt. It didn’t make sense.

“Is it?” Gezras asked, his voice growing increasingly strained and tired. “There’s a space when you enter a portal. It’s not a fluid motion to enter one and exit, there is a pause.”

“Gezras-” Joël frowned.

He ignored his interruption. “It’s been written that it is possible to exist within that space. It's not common, but it can happen.”

"How would a bunch of elves know that exists?" Joël began to scowl.

He gave him an annoyed look in turn, his exhaustion waning to be replaced with irritation at being questioned. It made the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up again, his body subconsciously recognizing the danger of _pissing Gezras off_. "The Aen Saevherne know what they're talking about."

Joël furrowed his brows deeply at him. "And how did they prove that? That there's a space between worlds?"

He glared at him. "They’re mages. They always do experiments and shit. Or are you telling me you don't believe them?"

"I don't believe a lot of things, Gezras," Joël said. "Especially theories that involve my students that have no basis or sense."

Gezras' cheek twitched, his anger beginning to surface again, changing his expression into a grim one. Where his eyes began to widen, his pupils flooding as his body tensed. "You can light a man on fire with a wave of your hand, but believing your student isn't of this world is farfetched?" 

"I don't believe he's dead, like you theorized," he said. "And I don't believe he just popped out from nowhere. Between worlds or not."

He barely gave him a glance as he went back to the wine bottle, sloshing the liquid inside for a moment before he raised it. “You have a better theory for his strangeness, then?”

Joël moved to douse his pipe with his thumb, not even flinching as it hissed against his skin. “Schrödinger isn’t some sort of changeling or paranormal phenomenon from a fairy tale-”

“I never said he was. I said he’s been born between worlds, leaving him as a walking paradox, based on shit I've read about in the Aen Saevherne archives. What’s not to understand about this?” Gezras snapped.

Joël scowled in turn. “That’s simply not possible.”

“Who are you to decide what is possible? To doubt fucking elven sages?” Gezras said, moving to point the lip of the wine bottle at him in accusation.

“Wait,” Gaetan said, interrupting abruptly. Before he was caught up in two Cat Witchers edging to slaughter one another while he stood weaponless. He could tell by Joël's increasingly tense body language that he was growing agitated and it made his own heart start to beat faster in anxiousness. He wouldn't stand a chance against Gezras. "Wa-Wait. Hold on. H-How-? Uh," he fumbled on his words as Gezras glared at him from the corner of his eye. It didn't help. “How can Schrödinger even interact with us, then? If-If he’s some sort of…” He still didn’t understand what to even call it. “…Wraith? Or walking ghoul? I don’t understand.”

Gezras slowly turned to glare at him, the tension between spiking for a moment, making his heart fly back up into his throat, but his eyes softened more to him than they had to Joël. It took a moment for the atmosphere to warm between them, his shoulders relaxing making him slowly imitate his posture, and he gave another sharp side glance to Joël before he turned the wine bottle into his hands. Tipping it slightly as he went to take another drink.

He would have preferred it if he stopped for the night. The alcohol didn't seem to be improving his mood. In fact, it was souring it.

“He’s not a wraith or a ghoul. He's just a paradox,” Gezras muttered, licking his lips for a moment. “If I were to guess, I'd say he’s probably a type of projection and we’re not even aware.”

“A projection?” he frowned.

Gezras gave a half-hearted shrug. “Something like that.”

For a moment, he considered just nodding and going along with it, but he honestly had no idea what he was talking about. Once again he had to swallow his heart down, his arms prickling enough that he rubbed one of them to scare off his nerves, the air seeming to grow frostier with every passing hour. It made his grass-stained elbow sting for a second. “W-What’s a projection?”

Gezras paused, looking at him as if he couldn't tell if he was joking. Joël cast him the same type of gaze, but it wasn't as furious as the look he kept giving their former Grandmaster. He ignored both of them, rubbing his other arms as he started pulling down his sleeves, pretending as if it was the most intricate, concentration-heavy task in the world. 

“It’s-” Gezras' cheek twitched again, his eyes sharp as he watched him, unamused. “-A type of magic. Sorceresses use types of portals to project images of themselves to each other to talk.”

That seemed impossible and he went still, trying to think on how they achieved such a thing. He wasn't too familiar with portals, but he recalled finding deactivated crystals as large as his hand in elven ruins. It seemed overly large just to talk to someone. "Ho-How?"

Gezras rubbed at his temple with his middle finger. "With a megascope." Before he even opened his mouth, he cut him off. "Don't even bother asking me how they work. It's not shit I recommend Witchers tinker with or care about. It’s Sorceresses’ junk."

“How do you know that?”

He took another drink, his voice growing flat and deadpanned. “I’ve fucked enough of them to know what shit of theirs to stay away from.”

His cheeks grew red at his statement. It wasn't from the crudeness of it, it was just difficult imagining any woman - _anyone_ \- would openly let Gezras get close to them. Then again, he recalled rumors of Brehen even finding willing women, and he was the worst of them all. The slight shudder he made got Gezras to make a strange, unsettling smile. As if he knew what he was thinking, and he was forced to redirect. Before their conversations turned back to insulting him. Joël could be especially cruel when it was about women.

Though he didn't look too enthused to speak about anything at the moment. His focus had been drawn to his pipe and cleaning it, but his dark expression hadn't changed. It was the same cold look he got when Kiyan had a fight with him. 

He was fucking pissed.

Gods help him. He just wanted a quiet night.

"Uh, G-Gezras," he stumbled, moving to direct the old Cat's focus entirely on him so he didn't read Joël's. “So, is-? Uh, can he move through objects then? Or walls? Like wraiths can do?”

Whether he picked up on what he was doing or not, he didn't reflect in his expressions or body language. He merely crossed an arm over his knees, propping the wine bottle on the top of his bracers to keep it steady while he watched the fire. Slowly relaxing, though he still remained pensive and focused. “I don’t know, Gaetan. Like I said, he’s a paradox. I don't know what he's capable of.”

"Right," he breathed out. "But if he's a projection-?"

Gezras slightly shrugged. "It's possible."

"Well, then," he fumbled for more things to say. He barely knew shit about Schrödinger to begin with and Gezras' theory hadn't helped. What was there to say about a blood brother that he hadn't seen in thirteen years? If it wasn't for Gezras' warning of a coming war, he wouldn't have seen him for another thirteen. "Uh. Well."

His stupid babbling didn't make things better. Slowly, Gezras' eyes crawled up to stare at him, waiting for him to say something intelligent. Again, he could see the his lack of patience beginning to form as his mouth began turning into a thin line, his golden eyes narrowing in irritation. Like the way a cat would get sick of a barking dog. It only made his nerves vibrate harder under his skin, and he found himself scratching roughly as his upper arm.

For fuck's sake. Why was Gezras' so damn difficult to deal with.

"Well-" he jumbled his sentences in his mouth. "Well... Well then-?" Fucking hell. "Well then, I don't know, can we help him or something?"

His question suddenly hung in the air between them all. Not even the fire wanted to crackle and it cast a silence that seemed to envelope his furtive bumbling. One that forced all of them to acknowledge it, whether they liked it or not. Gezras slowly blinked, his expression almost _compassionate_ for a second, a sight which he found deeply terrifying, before it changed into his furrowed contemplating. His jaw grew tight, his body went still, and his eyes darted between the fire, the ground, and his feet.

He found himself looking to his mentor and Joël stared past him, his own eyes softening before they met his. A moment passed between them and he found himself unwillingly understanding what Joël was mentally thinking.

What help could they give? How would they even help Schrödinger to begin with?

What was he?

It was Gezras that had a different outlook. One that clashed with their cynicism, for once. “Maybe,” he said softly. It jolted him right back to gaping at him.

“Huh?" he said, dumb. Thankfully, Gezras ignored his initial outburst. "Wait, maybe? There's a chance?”

Gezras gave a small, weak shrug. "...Yeah. I think so." He purposely paused, his index finger scraping up and down the side of the wine bottle, but he didn't move to drink from it anymore. "If the last of the Aen Saevherne are willing to look at him, then..." He hesitated. "...Maybe they can give some further insight. And help.”

“And where are they?” Joël asked quietly, finally addressing him again. Gezras’ cheek twitched, his breathing growing deep for a second before he let out a long-suffering sigh.

“In Dol Blathanna.”

Dol Blathanna? That was hundreds of miles back to the southeast. Tucked away near Lyria and Rivia. “…That’s down near Aedirn,” Joël said before he could.

“Yeah,” Gezras muttered, his eyes casting away from them. Far away.

“We’re in Redania,” Joël said, his voice raising slightly.

“Yeah,” Gezras repeated before he carefully set the wine bottle down by his feet. Forgotten altogether.

Joël almost glared at him, his agitation becoming palpable. It left him flushing in concern as he tried not to stare at his old mentor and how furious Joël's expression had become. Like an old panther being woken to challenge the new blood. There was an air of dismissiveness with him, but also utter impatience. “So, what, should we now turn back south?”

“No.”

“Then how-?” Joël laid his hand on his knee, leaning towards Gezras, trying to intimidate him, but it failed to cause any recourse. The old Cat purposely ignored him as he reached up to rub at his neck again, pressing his palm under his chin before he sharply cracked his jaw. It made him wince at the loud pops, how brittle his bones sounded, and Gezras said nothing as he repeated the process to the other side. Flexing and stretching his muscles like he had just woken up from a long nap.

Joël was the only one between them that seemed unfazed, his mouth closing to tightly. Angry at being disregarded. "Are you just theorizing that they can help again? Or did you just mention this all for nothing?"

The mood grew tense once more as Gezras' gaze drew hollow and frigid, his fingers curling slightly against his skin, turning the area where they pressed pure white from pressure. He regarded Joël in a way that suggested he was worthless - expendable. A being he could kill if he didn't shut his mouth and that he would delight doing so. It left him prickling as he felt the mutual simmering hated fill the space around them, the atmosphere drying out his mouth and tongue as the old Cat Witchers locked eyes and silently dared the other to start their inevitable violence.

Like two tomcats fighting in the deep of the night over a female. Only for them, it was over which one of them should back the fuck down first. Which Cat would submit to the other and _learn their place_.

It made him gulp, his own skin growing cold and slick with sweat at the same time.

It wasn't his fight; He was a bystander. Yet he wasn't in the mood to slink off only to return to a mutual massacre in the morning. Technically, he needed them both alive, especially Gezras. He was the only one who knew where the hell they could seek refuge in the Dragon Mountains and the only one amongst them who could even decipher elven puzzles and runes. He needed him to stay with them if their baffling expedition was even going to succeed.

And he wasn’t going to freeze to death in a snowbank at the edge of the world.

But unsurprisingly, he seemed uninterested in anything that wasn't maiming Joël. His eagerness to kill overshadowing all reason and thought - something he understood well when their ‘emotions’ took hold. "Here I thought you had some bit of intelligence to you, Joël," Gezras mused, a smile beginning to play on his lips. One that only seemed to surface when the prospect of spilling blood was on the table. "I've answered your questions and you still think you have some sort of right to insult me."

"Answer my questions?" Joël scowled. "All you've done is insult my students, mention some idiotic elven theory, then proceed to imply if one needed help, they have to go fuck off back down South. Where your supposed war is happening."

All warmth vanished from Gezras' face. "There is a war coming."

Joël bared his teeth for a moment. "You saw a bunch of Nilfgaardians marching. They could have been moving to a fortress for all you know, but you seem to enjoy jumping to conclusions rather, even when they're outlandishly stupid."

He went rigid. What the hell was Joël doing? He didn't even have to _look_ at Gezras to see his outrage. He could feel it radiating off him as his face cracked and he sported his deranged, souless smile that left him shuddering in discomfort. A grin that was akin to a barghest's smirk - the one they made after they had torn a victim to bits.

His bared teeth were particularly unsettling to see. How perfect they were in contrast to the ghastliness of his expression. “Jumping to conclusions? I saved your damn hide, and this is how you thank me?”

Joël raised his head slightly, looking down at him. As if he were some snot-nosed kid. “Thank you? For what? Our caravan was attacked-”

“Not my problem,” he interrupted. Joël ignored it.

“-Axel and Cedric were murdered, and you proceed to unceremoniously herd the last of us into the wilds, killing indiscriminately every stretch of the way, treating my students like burdens even though all three of us have had your back multiple times when you would have died. And what do you demand after? Huh, Gezras? That I’m supposed to grovel to you? Send one of my students back towards your war? Kiss your ass?” Joël spat on the ground again. Violently. “You’ve done nothing for us. Just like you did nothing those hundreds of years ago when you _left_ because you can’t handle responsibility.”

He gaped at Joël. How utterly insane he was. How he could just say such fucking things and drag him into it when the Cat Witcher he was addressing had the thinnest grip on reality between them all. Schrödinger included. It made the fear in him blossom again, bursting open within his chest like a hammer cracking into a hazelnut, and one glance to Gezras told him it wasn’t unfounded.

He practically glowed with malice, his smile growing wider as the insanity seemed to swallow his thoughts. Where he only existed to _kill_.

When he replied, it was with an eerie, purring tone. "It's been a while since I killed another Cat Witcher," he said, not bothering to hide his delight. "I suppose you’ll be my second, Joël." He gave him a full view of his grin, the derangement barely disguised as he cracked his fingers. Each one making a sharp, brutal pop. “Pity. I didn’t mind you much.”

Joël tensed in disgust. Even he found himself in shock at the revelation. He had killed one of their own? Who? 

_Why?_

"If you think you’ll even get the chance, you’re sorely mistaken," he wiped the back of his mouth with his hand, moving to shove his pipe back into his pocket as he slowly began to stand. Gezras' only let out a low, delighted huff, his pupils expanding until his eyes iris' were nearly black.

“We’ll see.”

"Wa-Wait," he stuttered. Shit. What the fuck? They were serious, weren't they? "Wait, hold on. This-"

"Shut up, Gaetan," Gezras snapped as he fluidly moved off his seat, his curved sword already halfway out of its sheathe. "Your Mentor and I need to have a little chat. Alone."

"Gezras, wait-" he stumbled. “Jo-Joël!” 

"Gaetan," Joël warned as he reached for his own sword. Steel - for humans. And Witchers. "You best go to your tent."

So now they wanted him to leave? For fuck's sake. For _fuck's sake_. He knew he should as this wasn't his fight and he was still weaponless, but he had a stake in both of them. If either of them died, he'd be royally fucked. He suddenly felt very, very tired.

"Can't you two just-?" he started on them, flinching as Gezras' twirled his sword in his hands, his eyes wild and ecstatic with bloodlust. Joël's sword flashed under the light of the fire - a wicked two-handed heavy sword that he slung as if it was a birch twig. He was surprisingly quick with it, but Joël couldn't compare to Gezras' speed. He was thin and wiry, made for attacking like a panther. Joël was more like a lion - charging and relentless in his pursuit, but preferring to beat down whatever opponent crossed blades with him in a single spot. It didn't look good. "-Can't you fucking take a walk? Both of you?"

"Gaetan," Gezras purred his name. “Leave."

For fuck's sake. This-!

A scent hit him before he could respond; A powerful one. One that had come out of nowhere. It wasn't the familiarity of woodsmoke, or of the sweat from their horses. It was foul and gruesome, a scent that made him gag, and he covered his mouth as he whipped his gaze to the outer edges of their camp. Gezras paused, his sword tip nearly touching the ground as he raised his head to look past Joël with a grimance, and even his old mentor hesitated, his mouth twisting as he tasted the smell. It was a distinctive stench of death, one that hung around battlefields, graveyards, and cursed ruins, and he knew it didn’t come from any of them. The suddenness suggested something else.

Monsters. 

It left him coughing and he instinctively reached for his swords, recognizing the danger and that he needed his blade for what was coming. Only his hand met nothing but air - because he still didn’t fucking _have_ them.

They were still in his tent. Not on his back. _In his tent_.

Gods damn him for being so fucking stupid!

"What is that-?" he coughed, trying hard not to breathe as he uselessly felt around his belt for weapons that weren’t there either. Gezras slipped near him, his eyes locked on the forest around them, and Joël cast his gaze to the North, his grip tightening on his sword, forgetting about the duel he was about to engage in. Both of them did.

Because there was something else lurking around them. Something cursed.

At first there was nothing that he could see, even when he sapped himself of all his senses but the ones that helped him see in the night. Where the world became monochrome, dull, and exposed and open for a Witcher to discern. He couldn’t feel a heartbeat that didn’t come from the them or the horses, or anything like a stalking monster that was somehow roaming out of sight within the trees. Yet when he focused, his bod growing still and letting eyes adjusting to every little leaf and blade of grass, he recognized something amiss. A shadow wavered in the distance, like a mirage. Something was out there.

And nearby.

He went rigid as he pinpointed the shadowed figure that was slipping in and out between the trees, silent and calm like a Nightwraith that had woken from a deep slumber. It took a moment of him blinking to realize he wasn’t hallucinating anything - the shadows existed - and he shot his hand out to point.

He was the first to make any movement. “Someone-”

"Szzt. Don't alert it," Gezras said sharply beside him, making him twitch in shock at his closeness. He didn’t seem bothered by his reaction as his eyes expanded like his, focusing on where he had pointed with a strange curiosity, his gaze darting about until he found what he had seen. Joël imitated them, facing to the south like they were as his eyes narrowed, before he was more delayed in seeing the wraith. Only when it was a good three hundred yards away did he fixate on it and grow rigid in his stance. Something he imitated as he waited with slightly baited breath.

Weaponless. _Vulnerable_.

The figure moved strangely as it swayed between trees, looking as if it was trying to hide as it bobbed and dipped, until it careened and staggered. Tripping on roots - or stumbling from exhaustion. One or the other. When it slipped into the hollow like a Nightwraith moving through a moonbeam, he found himself holding his breath as the being aimed immediately for the fire. Undeterred by the two Cat Witchers holding swords and him raising a hand with intent to cast signs.

Because they were used to walking into such reactions. What Witcher wasn’t?

He was the first to drop his mouth, but Joël was the first to speak. “Schrödinger?”

The pale Witcher seemed to float toward them and it was the first time that he noticed there was something unnatural about the way he moved. How his feet slid on the ground instead of stepping, and his own golden eyes were glazed and far away, as if he was seeing through them. Gezras sighed beside him, making him slump slightly, but when he caught his eye he knew he was thinking the same thing.

A paradox; Trapped between worlds.

Unnatural.

_A stranger._

Joël went to him first, blade still in hand, but Schrödinger only looked past him. Past them all, out to the other side of the trees as if he was seeing hundreds of miles away in every direction. A walking god amongst mortals that didn’t understand them.

“Schrödinger?” Joël repeated, skeptical on touching him, but he did catch him before he walked right into the fire. Even he found himself moving to the strange Cat's side, unsure as he watched the pale Witcher chew on his chapped lips. “Where the hell were you?”

He began to murmur. His voice soft and nearly unrecognizable to the point that Gezras seemed to prickle at him, his shoulders tense as he hung back. As if he was almost afeared of him.

Could he blame him?

“Schrödinger?” he said, trying to get through to him as well. Everything about him seemed suspicious and alien in that moment, but he knew it was just paranoia building in himself. That he was his _brother_ , despite their theories. He was just strange - weird. And not at all a projection or walking ghost. He wasn’t a paradox - he couldn’t be.

Schrödinger still didn't look at theml, his eyes strangely milky before he blinked in rapid succession. As if pulling himself out of a dream.

_Or a dimension._

“Sorry,” was the first thing he said, his voice confused, but still a neutral, emotionless tone.

“Sorry?” Joël said as he leaned toward him, his own gaze skeptical. "Schrödinger, where the hell have you been? Where did you go?"

“They followed me,” he said, guilty, ignoring what Joël has asked. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for them to come back.” It made him tense at just how unsettling his statement was.

“Who?” Joël pressed, cautiously moving to grip his shoulder. Checking to see if he was solid. If Schrödinger noticed, he didn't say. He merely cast his eyes back over his shoulder, forcing them all to look with him. To face what had been chasing him.

“Sorry.”

The scent of death grew in intensity, immediately watering his eyes at how he could now taste the smell, as if rotten flesh had been shoved down his throat. Gezras spoke for them as he sucked in a breath through gritted teeth. Recognizing the monsters before Joël or him could. “Beann’shies.”

“W-What?”

_”Banshees.”_

As if the wraiths had heard, a horrific wail filled the sky from deep within the trees. One that made his bones hurt and Joël flinch in shock. Even Gezras winced from the scream. He stared to where Schrödinger had emerged from, a green mist slowly leaking through the trees and wafting toward them, and their horses started to buck and nicker in fear. Understanding what exactly was emerging would hurt them if given the chance.

The fog curled quickly around them, forming a crude ring, and he found himself holding his breath as the stench of death choked the air. Rotting flesh, cracked marrow, spindly long hair - all the hallmarks of powerful wraiths. His horse reared and bellowed from the aspens and he felt the evil presence swarm them, dancing around like a pack of wolves circling a wounded deer, rippling his skin and driving adrenaline through his veins.

And he stood weaponless to the demons.

For fuck’s sake. For **fuck's** sake!

“Sorry,” Schrödinger repeated. “They followed me from the war.”

“War?” he said, stumbling back slightly as he struggled to look for a weapon. An axe - a stick even. His signs weren't enough against a swarm of Beann’shies and he cursed again at the fact that his tent was beyond the circling ring, forcing him to be as helpless as a child. He sucked in a breath as Joël started ripping into his satchel, pulling out a vial of blade oil while Gezras switched blades, a strange look of amusement dancing in his eyes. Completely thrilled by the development that he could still _kill_. “Wh-What war? What are you talking about? Where the hell were you, Schrödinger? Why'd you leave?”

“The war that’s coming,” Schrödinger said quietly, his eyes growing dim again as one of the wraiths started forming into a physical, tangible being behind Joël; Its voice shrieking, sending shockwaves across the ground that only Schrödinger didn’t flinch at. As if they couldn't hurt him. “Nilfgaard. I saw them."

"You what? Saw what?"

"Nilfgaard," he repeated. "They’re burning down the North.”


End file.
